Where the Wild Ones Grow
by sofakingwhat
Summary: Can a flower grow without the sun? Can Poison Ivy grow without hope?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It is, by nature, unnatural. The dull hue of the fluorescent light offered nothing of the nourishing savor of the mother of all nature, the sun. Rather, the overhead fluorescence was nothing more than a luminous emptiness mimicking the soulful hollow of the woman lost beneath the light.

Poison Ivy lay in the heart of the asylum, the stainless, lifeless steel walls cradled her, lulled her further into the desolate depths of her silent isolation. There she rest, dormant, planted deep within Arkham Asylum akin to a fledgling seed within the soil, or perhaps, a corpse buried in the dirt.

For a time, her voice bled with shrill cries for freedom. Her struggles to be heard carried no further than the reflective echoes enveloping her. The four walls now had become her adversaries, enmity between her and the steel palms smothering her breathing and strangling her throat. It was as if, in her most dire need to be heard, the world had grown deaf after a lifetime of telling her, in its vile and raised voice, who to be.

No one could hear her, trapped in her cell. No one could hear her, trapped within herself. Over time, she stopped screaming.

She was alone in every way a human being can be alone. No, not alone, she quickly convinced herself. She was not alone, not completely. She had a friend, a lover, a mother, a part of her sharing in this fragile life. Through the misery and melancholy, she held fast to the one, the only one, who truly understood her. As she lay curled in fetal position on the metallic floor in the middle of the cell, Poison Ivy, mind and body, clung to her flower pot.

While her thoughts roamed, her eyes remained fixed on the plant. There were glimpses in time in which she would admit that the flower had become all too much like herself. Like Ivy, the rose once was beautiful and sterling, embracing the adoration and affection of those fortunate enough to be granted even the faintest glance at its majesty. Before being caged here, before all this, her rose grew proudly in her garden, nurtured by the sun and tended by her own hands.

As is the unenviable fate of human beings, roses too, are not immune to change. Where it once bloomed with healthy red petals and a firm stem, the delicate flower now teetered between life and death. The few remaining petals were now a murky, menstrual dark brown red, while the desiccated stem sickly curled into an almost twisted question mark shape, permanently orienting the rose petals to face down. It did something to Ivy to watch her flower slowly deteriorate before her, coming closer and closer to its final day on Earth. She was helpless, always helpless to do anything to stop it.

Ivy knew, in her heart, that her rose would never be the same without the embrace of the sun and the enduring kiss of falling rain. Upon her re-sentencing to Arkham, the doctors and the warden had offered to allow her to plant her flower in the outdoor garden and tend to it for an hour each day. At first, the offer seemed irrefutable; the one thing, the only thing, she truly enjoyed in this sad life was being amongst nature. Something about the way the grasses gently sway back and forth as the passing wind weaves between each blade or the soothing aroma of a bed of roses in late April that had always drawn her to nature.

It was more than that though. Certainly, she adored nature cosmetically, but more sincerely, she respected nature. Although plants and animals, each in their own fashion, prey on each other, they only act as a function of their nature. Their behavior is driven by the ultimate desire, that of survival. Nature, though savage and bloody, is never cruel. No, cruel is this cage she is prisoner in. Cruel is motivation out of self-propagation, gluttony, and greed.

To that end, she instinctively wanted to accept their offer. However, as she deliberated more on that option, a daunting thought impeded her decision. A gnawing feeling jarred her conscience as she realized that despite the fact that her flower needs to see the sun to truly grow, she couldn't help but feel that so much can happen, so much can go wrong outside.

She would only be able to see and care for her flower for one measly hour each day. For 23 hours, she began to worry, for 23 hours her precious lover would be alone and unprotected. She just could not bear to have a doctor, or the warden, or even more infuriating, a guard, dryly tell her that her flower, her wonderful, alluring rose had been trampled while she was confined to her cell.

She would be even more helpless if she planted the rose in the garden outside, and so Ivy declined their offer, and instead opted to dote on her rose within her cell. A part of her realized she had acted against her better judgment, but it was something she had to do.

It was a wild flower, or at least it was meant to be that way, but things, as Ivy had experienced all too often in her life, seldom ended the way they were meant to be, no matter how hard you seem to try.

Soon after she finished that notion, her cell door creaked open as she heard the rusted turn of the guard's key rattle in the lock. It was the same guard as always, and as always, she entered carrying Ivy's stale dinner, placing it on the bed. Without so much as a word or even an exhale, the female guard roughly turned back around and walked towards the door. Nevertheless, the female guard habitually did something that mildly irked Ivy. After putting her meal on the bed, for a flashing second, the female guard stole a glance at Poison Ivy, and then exited. Her eyes tore through Poison Ivy as if she were looking for something hidden inside Ivy's very soul.

As the female guard walked towards the door and left, Ivy briefly began to think about her. Her coarse stride defied her natural figure. Under her guard hat and thick, layered uniform, Ivy sensed a woman beneath it all, a strand of femininity suffocating below the weight of the world. Looking deeply at her, Ivy could tell, perhaps, had things been a little different this female guard could have been someone different entirely. In another life, this woman could have been a glamorous model, or a glorious princess, but instead, she was here. Ivy lamented what could possibly have happened in that young woman's life to doom her to a life here, in Arkham.

After a second, Ivy then considered, "much the same she probably wonders about me."

Abandoning that vagrant thought, Ivy's eyes drearily focused on the inedible mess laid on her bed. Fed like an animal, a disgusting filthy animal, they toss food into her cell and treat her with no more dignity than they would scraps of garbage lining the streets. A plant and an animal, prisoners in a world of fools; but Ivy knew she was not the real animal. It was so depressing to her that she was here, caged like this, helpless to stop the true animal, man.

There were times she would question, what is the point of it all? She had tried to make a difference, she had tried to do what was right and be the person she had to be. She thought she could be the voice for the silent, the voice for nature and the planet itself. But no, she had failed; after all, she was here.

She cannot fight the whole world, what hope was there? In the confines of her cell, the days unraveled stillborn, one after the other, nothing seemed to matter anymore. She had nothing to remember, and nothing to look forward to; no past, no future, and a present she wished to return. Curled in fetal position around her wilting flower, Poison Ivy lay waiting, for what, she did not know anymore. To be released, for something to happen, for a change? In grim honesty, a part of Poison Ivy lie waiting for death to finally take her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She saw no point in fighting back. As would cold automatons, several Arkham guards stormed into Poison Ivy's cell the next morning and, devoid of reason or emotion forcibly thrust her frail arms into a heaving straightjacket. The cumbersome weight of the straightjacket around her was an iron anchor attached to her dainty figure. Their rough hands clasped around her arms and legs and dragged her limp body out of the cell, down the hallway towards the office of Jeremiah Arkham. Similar to her hands cased inside the straightjacket, Ivy felt nothing as they carried her off.

Her indifference did not wane as they hauled her into the office and shoved her down into the chair. Across from Ivy sat Jeremiah Arkham, his face held towards the window, his mind lost amongst the dusk clouds. Ivy could tell his mind was elsewhere, his thoughts askew, but she could care less. Her fate no longer in her possession, Ivy had long ago conceded that nothing she said or did in this asylum made a difference. Quietly she remained seated, waiting to be addressed by Arkham.

Continuing to look outside, Arkham began to listlessly speak, "Miss Isley," he paused a second, and then emphasized, "Poison Ivy. I regret to have to inform you that recently, a native plant species to Gotham has nearly been destroyed due to the adverse environmental effects of a newly constructed homeless shelter."

Arkham cleared his throat, and still not making eye contact, went on, "You see it seems as if the site of the homeless shelter was home to select animal and insect species. With the destruction of their habitat, these animals have now become a sort of pseudo invasive species to habitats on the outskirts of Gotham. As you can probably surmise, these invasive species are negatively affecting the normal ecosystem these plants are accustomed to, and from early research, it seems that they have drastically increased herbivory on the plant species."

Somewhere inside Poison Ivy was an undying part of her untainted by the world around her. This incendiary side of her burned in outrage over what she had just been told. She understood now why Arkham refused to look her in the eyes because she knew he could not. Again, sadly, she was proven correct about this callow and imbecilic world. Innocence, once more, had fallen victim to the irreconcilable consequences of their actions. Her blood boiled, her skin ached with the pain of her pulsating veins on the verge of bursting in crimson fury. The fools, she hatefully thought, those elitist, arrogant, barbarians…but just as hastily as these thoughts blitzed her mind, they too, departed.

These thoughts had no presence in her newly asylum formed conscious. She was so ready to claw out Arkham's disrespectful eyes with her fingers for merely even retelling such horrific news, but another part of her, the part that had proliferated in step with the other's decay, stopped her. In this, her apathy and woe, she found herself unable to do, or to say, anything at all.

And so she sat hating herself. Her head twisted down as she stared at the ground below her, not unlike the crinkled stem of her rose.

Her behavior surprised him. Arkham had always known Ivy to be as fiery and passionate as the wild red hair flowing from her lovely head. Maybe, he thought, she was far too distraught to even mouth anger. That wasn't it though, and he knew it. For the past few months, he had watched young Isley degenerate before him, her soul painfully wilting into nothingness. Even for someone as jaded and admittedly sinister as Jeremiah Arkham, it was never easy to watch someone die right before your eyes.

With a glint of hope, Arkham, for the first time in the conversation, turned to face Ivy, and said, "In lieu of these recent environmental issues," pausing once more, he cleared his throat, and finished, "Miss Summer Gleason has invited you to speak via satellite on Gotham Insider on a panel discussion of this issue. They have agreed to bring their camera crew to the asylum and broadcast your opinions to their main studios, allowing you to participate in the group discussion. At first, we, I, was hesitant. Obviously, if you were in my position, I'm sure you would consider the many ways in which things could go wrong with such an endeavor. Nevertheless, I've thought about this over and over, and based upon your recent stellar behavior, I have decided to allow you to speak on Gotham Insider. That is, if you so desire. It is up to you now Pamela."

Giving his words time to digest, Arkham relaxed a moment. Waiting to see even an inkling of excitement or enthusiasm in Ivy, her stoic demeanor disappointed him. She neither screamed nor flinched, rather gazing distantly in his direction. At a glance, he had to remind himself that he was not conversing with a ghost.

Intently, he leaned forward onto the desk between the two, rested his elbows on the desk, and spoke directly to her, "I think it will do you good to be in an open environment where you can listen to other points of view and interact with others. This is a good opportunity for you Pamela, do not throw it away."

While Arkham did feel sorry for Ivy, he, like so many others, had ulterior motives for wanting her to do the show. First, Gotham Insider had offered a handsome donation to the asylum if Isley agreed to be on the show. The asylum could never have too much money, and with this donation, he could improve security along with the rehabilitation aspect of the asylum. The staff of therapists and doctors deserved raises for all the time and effort they invested here, especially considering the hazards they faced each day.

On the opposite side of the desk, Poison Ivy reserved her own judgment on this proposition placed in front of her. Despite her initial apprehension, suddenly she began to look forward to the debate, in a morbid way. For the first time in months, Poison Ivy spoke, and responded, "I'll do it."

Her flesh may be bound, but no matter, her voice would be her Frankenstein, her monstrous means of inflicting pain. Oh the raw contempt she would spew forth on live television. She salivated at the prospective power they had placed in her prickly palms.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The producers and crew encouraged Ivy to allow them to put makeup on her; she encouraged them to back up off her. Ivy had no intention of hiding anything. She wanted the world to see her for who she naturally is, and was surprised that they would expect anything less.

In the past several days, the previously dreary doldrums of the asylum had been transformed by the injected life of the television crew. For Poison Ivy, the focus of all this attention, worlds were changing inside her. With the assemblage of every television cable, light box, and camera just outside her cell, Ivy in turn constructed a well of sardonic, scathing diatribe to unleash on the masses. She had spent her dreaming hours forming, her waking hours composing all she would say today. It would not be easy to encapsulate the oceans of ideas she wanted, no, needed to say. Nonetheless, she looked forward to the day. This was her chance she kept telling herself, this was her chance to make herself heard once and forever more. She began to truly believe this would be her legacy, what she would leave behind to the rest of the world, cementing her place deep in the webbed grey matter of each and every mindless Gothamite. It would be something they would all remember.

Dissimilar to the crew, Ivy stood ready and waiting with a tense self assurance, her lips like an unsheathed blade prepared to eviscerate. Then it happened. All too similar to the recent story she had heard of Clayface, everything quickly began to crumble around her.

Minutes before airtime, the young, cocky television producer approached Ivy at the door of her cell. Whereas the crew members cautiously avoided eye contact with her and tried their best to not do anything that would remotely draw her ire, this producer confrontationally knocked on her cell and addressed her. He stared at her as if he was on the outside of a zoo cage; he looked down on her. His eyes told more than Ivy could ever possibly say on Gotham Insider. The look he gave her condescendingly said to her that she was an animal attraction, a tool, a means to an end. Through his eyes, Ivy was the one thing she hated above all else in this existence; a product.

He began to speak, his voice slightly hoarse, as if he had just tossed a cigarette, and said, "Poison Ivy. It's almost airtime. Now, we've gone over the format of the discussion with you, but one thing we want you to remember is that while this is live TV, it is being broadcast on cable television. In short, you have full authority to use any type of profanity, language, or expressions you like without being censored."

As he said that, he grinned ever so much. Fully expecting her to wholeheartedly embrace his announcement, he finished, "There are no handcuffs; you are free to say whatever you so desire…We encourage you to use it." Satisfied by his remarks, the producer turned around and stepped towards the camera crew and told them to get ready, the show was about to start.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, Summer Gleason sat in the studio of Gotham Insider preparing to go live. Tensions were high in the studio as the guests, live audience, and crew members waited in nervous anticipation of the almost guaranteed train-wreck they were about to witness. With one final plea, the tense camera man stood up to speak to Summer and try to talk some sense into her. Sweating profusely, he reminded her, "Summer, are you sure this wise? I mean, this is live, uncensored TV globally broadcasted!"

Summer quickly grew weary of his remarks and agitatedly said, "What's your point?" "Well…" he stammered, struggling to find the courage to say what he believed, "It's just that, can't you see how much can go wrong with all this? Poison Ivy is a multi-convicted sociopathic killer, who we just happen to be giving, no, encouraging to say any type anti-society, anti-Gotham, anti-American thing she wants! What do we do if she starts yelling and screaming and making threats or explodes right there on live TV!"

Realizing that her inexperienced, naïve cameraman simply did not see the big picture in all of this, she indulged him, saying, "What do we do? What do we do?" She couldn't help herself as she unrestrainedly chuckled, "That is exactly what we want her to do." More than her heartless words, the ease with which she spoke them unsettled the cameraman, and Summer divulged further, "We are counting on her to break down, we are all hoping she goes crazy during the debate and starts yelling, kicking, and screaming curse words and empty threats and derelict rants. That is interesting, that is exciting. That is what people want to see. No one in Gotham cares about plants they've never seen or animals they've never heard of. No, they want to see the famous Poison Ivy melt down before their eyes as she rambles incoherently about how, 'society bad, and me good.' People want conflict. They want to see her cuss out the other panelists, and in the process, look like a childish idiot. That is what we are looking forward to tonight."

It was all so much to process for the young man who had only begun work on Gotham Insider earlier in the year. He had wanted to be a director when he was younger, that was his dream. He imagined making wonderful cartoon movies people of all ages could enjoy. Instead, his studies and hard work had led him here, a rookie cameraman working in an environment that would change him forever. Fittingly, the topic of the show's discussion was, at least supposed to be, invasive species. Confused, but humbled, the cameraman spoke no more and did as he was told.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

And so it began. In her faux sincerity, Summer Gleason introduced the show and her guests, "Hello, and welcome to Gotham Insider. On tonight's edition, we examine the recent controversy surrounding the development of a new homeless shelter in Gotham, and the subsequent environmental effects stemming from it. Joining me tonight in the discussion is the head financer of the shelter, humanitarian Mr. Ray Adams, and, via satellite from within the confines of Arkham Asylum, our very special guest panelist, the infamous Poison Ivy!"

Switching from a close-up shot of Summer in the studio, the camera panned to a wide shot of Poison Ivy. As is the case, the camera never lies, and in her debut shot, the camera captured the totality of Ivy's essence and experience in Arkham; the camera depicted her in chains.

Back to Summer, she continued, "Alright, we will start things off tonight with an opening statement from Ray Adams. Now Ray, it has been argued that the construction of your homeless shelter has triggered a cascade of environmental effects that have caused habitat destruction and spurred invasive species epidemics. How do you respond to these allegations?"

The camera then turned to Ray Adams, seated across from Summer in the studio. He sat flat against his chair, his back pressed smoothly against the chair rest. There was a sparkle in his eye, an undying symbol of his vitality and ambition. A man in his mid to late 30's, Adams appeared younger than his numerical age, in part, because his mind was free of the binds that tie so many. He seemed like a man who still clung to his own beliefs, and had yet to be devoured by the dictates of the world around him.

Self assuredly, he replied to Summer's question, "Summer, we live in a society in which countless numbers of Gothamites spend each day on our streets, homeless. Or, perhaps, that is how the politicians, the media, and society as a whole want us to see them. But that is not the case, these so called 'homeless' are our brothers. They are our sisters, mothers, fathers, and children who are frozen in our back alleys and fighting to survive on our scraps. That is the reality of it all. We as a society for so long, for too long, have turned a deaf ear and blind eye to the plight all around us."

As he spoke, his passion began to rise, and he went on, "I don't know about you, or anyone else in this city, but I had gotten tired of it. This is these people's lives we are talking about! It is so easy to sit back and wine and dine and discuss the tragedy that has befallen these people who seem so far away, but it's not like that. Homeless people are not fools or second class citizens, or the animals we treat them and perceive them as; they are you and me, flesh and blood trying to just maintain every living thing's natural right to life. I am sick of it, sick of it all, so I decided to do something about it. Now; not later, not sit down and discuss it and never amount to anything, I decided to invest my money so that others can have something that cannot be bought and should not be sold; life."

His words, his conviction caught everyone, including Summer, off guard. It would seem she had gotten more than she had bargained for, but no matter, she conferred that his grey approach to the issue would still sufficiently ignite Ivy. Summer answered, "Interesting words from Mr. Adams, now for a rebuttal, we turn to Poison Ivy for her take on this. Ivy?"

It was her time now. All the waiting culminated here. Everything, in one sense, was perfect, precisely as she had planned. This was her opportunity to voice her ravenous contempt for the media, the economy, and politicians. While she sat through Adam's droll ramble and Summer's mind-numbing insincerity, Ivy clamored for her time to speak, and now it was upon her.

Something was wrong though, something was always in the way of her heart's desires. She truly wanted nothing more than to spit her vitriolic lyrical venom to the world, but her conversation with the producer, mixed with the goading candor of Gleason unnerved her. They seemed so tolerant, almost expectant, of even the glinting possibility of Ivy screaming her heart out.

Then, much to her chagrin, Ivy realized the truth surrounding her. Her anger had skewed her vision, but now she could see. It pained her to admit it, but in a hush, she said to herself, "…this…this is what they want me to do." Never had a blow struck her so bluntly, so mercilessly, as hearing those poisonous words aloud.

In that moment, she accepted that the producer was right; she was a product, selling herself rather than championing the issue. So quickly she had forsaken all she believed in for her salient, petty vengeance. It was never about her, she forced herself to remember, it was always first and foremost about the issues. It was about the environment, not about her. She, like all those she hated, was about to disrespect the environment by lording herself over it. In her time of clarity, she understood the error in her way, and promised to not allow herself to make this about her, and to instead concentrate on the issue at hand.

Once Gleason segued over to her, Summer, along with the entire record breaking viewing audience, intensely watched to see what would happen next. Ivy took a deep breath, and sedately began to speak, "…It is indicative. It is indicative of the preeminent arrogant social consciousness of Gotham." Ivy carefully selected her words, and continued, her voice growing stronger with each word, "It is this elitist attitude, the presupposed hierarchy of life that is the heart of the issue. Conventional thinking dictates that man is master, and thus superior to nature. However, mankind, no matter how it tries to deny and convince itself otherwise, is a part of nature. It is unnatural for the left arm to war with the right, yet time and time again, man pillages and dissociates from nature. Mankind is not meant to be responsible for nature. It is this infuriating conception that leads to so much chaos. For mankind to be responsible for nature, it would imply nature is subservient to mankind and is incapable of surviving on its own. Yet, the marred history of society has revealed quite the opposite, evidenced most recently by this egregious instance of human incompetence and failure to comprehend consequences. Mankind is meant to exist harmoniously within nature, not to play god over nature. Sadly, this is merely the beginning, a small drop in the rivers flowing red in the cannibalistic blood of humanity."

Even the cold air in Arkham stood still as Ivy spoke. Across the world, viewers sat mesmerized by her diction and articulation. Back in the studio, Summer too was captivated by her argument, but as a consummate professional, she regained her composure and answered, "…Well, now that we've heard from Ivy, we return now to Mr. Adams; your thoughts?"

Unlike everyone else in the world, Ray Adams was not flustered by her opening statement. Instead, her words further kindled his passion, and he answered, "So basically what this woman is condoning is that in this world we live in, there always seems to be something more important, more pressing than life itself. Every aspect of society places one form of price tag or another on everything around us. The scariest of these things is human life. So often, we trivialize human life and institute this sickening cost of living. Our economy is intrinsically built on taking advantages of others for personal gain so that only a few are wealthy and stay wealthy, while the majority struggle to survive. I'm tired of it, am I the only one disgusted by this?"

Taking a deep breath to quell a portion of his heightening fury, he declaratively stated, "What is more valuable than life? Human beings, our fellow man is out there, dying, because we are killing him! It's time, I believe at least, to break this cycle. Do I wish that the environment was not adversely affected by the homeless shelter? Of course. Do I value nature and the environment? Of course. Do I regret building the homeless shelter? No I do not, nor will I ever. This is just it, this whole debate we have, to take a line from my shortsighted opponent, is indicative of what is wrong with society. We have to be willing to make sacrifices to finally force good things to happen. The increased predation on this plant species is a necessary evil for the greater good of helping human life. I ask again, what is more important than human life? The positives of helping human beings outweigh the negatives of harming the environment."

Although he said to the contrary what she believed, Ivy couldn't help but listen intently as he spoke. She would never allow herself to admit, but his words did penetrate her mind and linger, for some time, in her thoughts. Nevertheless, Summer then returned the focus to Ivy, and Poison Ivy retorted, trying her best to remain calm, "The hallmark of this society is the innocent being destroyed along with the guilty. Poverty is a human made problem. It is a direct function of the affluence, greed, and gluttony polluting society. But of course, no one has the strength to attack the actual causes of poverty, because, heaven forefend, the bloated fat cats and corrupt politicians lose even a red cent of their mountains of money. No, it is the innocent who always suffer; painfully and silently. It is the innocent plants and animals who are the casualties of social war games; always the innocent, never the guilty who are the victims."

In response to Ivy, Summer, mindful of the clock, said, "Since we are running low on time, the final word must go to Ray Adams; Ray your final thoughts?"

Whereas Ivy delivered her speech with chilling serenity, Ray had become increasingly intense and in his last words as he avidly said, "I know you're the plant freak and all," and as he said that, the entire audience the world over bit their lips in unison, tensely waiting for Ivy's reaction to his condescending remark. Surely, they all thought, she would be inflamed by his careless insult, but to their ardent surprise, Ivy remained silent, continuing to listen to her opponent, and he continued, "But even you must realize that one man cannot fight the whole world. In a perfect world, I would thirst for a chance to redistribute wealth and eliminate the chasm between the poor and the rich, but it just is not feasible. As you said, the fat cats and political corruption are so deeply rooted that it is a fool's life to try and fight them. I do not wish to change society, merely help it. I'm not helping society by pointlessly lobbying to politicians or lawmakers. I am helping society by finally doing something no one else is willing to do; take action. People need homes and they need food. I can provide that, and that is exactly what I have, and will continue to do. No one said it would be easy, but that's not why I do it. I have ruffled the feathers of large corporations as well as environmentalists, but you know what, I don't care. I honestly do not care. You know why? Because I know, in my heart, that I have done the right thing, I have stood up and found the strength to speak out for what I believe in. If helping others has come at the cost of some plants; then so be it."

Hurriedly, Summer prepared to conclude the segment while still absorbing the girth of information contributed by both her guests, saying, "I'd like to apologize to my guests and all our viewers, but that's all the time we have tonight. Certainly, we could have debated this issue all night, but unfortunately that wraps up tonight's edition of Gotham Insider. I'd again like to thank my guests, Ray Adams and Poison Ivy for their spirited, and at times, heated debate. I'm Summer Gleason, good night."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

In the weeks that followed, things returned to the way they were for Poison Ivy. At the same time however, things would never be the same for her again. Following her unforgettable appearance on Gotham Insider, the entire city was ablaze with tempestuous comments and concerns. Prior to the show being aired, many rabidly debated whether the mere thought of interviewing Poison Ivy, a homicidal sociopath, should even be entertained. These people, the distinguished members of the police force, judges, and federal officials, felt Poison Ivy's invitation was more descriptively an invitation for chaos and havoc. In a way, their suspicions were correct.

After witnessing the grace with which Ivy articulated her argument, no one could deny that Poison Ivy had ironically surprised them by doing that which they were expecting her do to; shock them. Millions of viewers watched in earnest to see Poison Ivy manically express her bitterness over being in the asylum and ramble on and on in a futile tantrum. To their unpleasant surprise, the audience quickly learned firsthand that the woman they thought they knew, thought they understood, was more than they ever assumed her capable of. The woman that night was educated and dignified, a far cry from the mentally imbalanced criminal they had long ago brandished her as being.

In response to this ratings juggernaut edition of Gotham Insider, Poison Ivy soon received an overwhelming onslaught of letters from viewers. It was something she never expected, and in truth, it perturbed her by introducing a new element into her normal, mundane daily routine. Not long after the show had aired, Arkham informed her of the wealth of letters addressed to her.

Alone in her cell with the written word, Ivy felt ever so conflicted as she held the letters in her hand. In one sense, a part of her was outraged. How dare anyone have the never to write to Poison Ivy! She had no friends, no one she trusted in this world, and that is precisely how Ivy intended to keep it. What could anyone possibly want from her? Had they forgotten what she was capable of, had they forgotten all she had done? A tempting thought dominated her consciousness as she contemplated tearing apart each and every letter without even so much as glancing at one typed line.

Still, Ivy could not deny that it did feel nice, in its own insignificant way, to have so many letters just for her. Afraid at first to say it, Ivy finally admitted that it felt nice because it meant someone out there cared about her. Someone remembered her. She began to worry about opening even one letter for fear that its contents would dampen her mood. Negativity would tarnish the fact that possessing so many letters made her feel important, a feeling foreign to her during her stay in Arkham.

Though nervous at first, Ivy eventually opened the letters one by one. So often in her painful existence she had been let down, and once more, the familiarity of disappointment broached her as her eyes undressed the contents of every last letter. Hours inexorably drifted by, and all the while, Ivy lay quietly in her cell, her heart quietly breaking with each line.

Over time, it became all the same to her. Piles upon piles of letters all bashed Ivy's cynical point of view and anti-social beliefs. Letters ranged from confrontational to outright aggression, voicing a city's disdain for one of its own, Poison Ivy. Every word she had used and every idea she conveyed was mercilessly scrutinized by each letter, condemning her for lambasting the development of a homeless shelter.

More deeply however, Ivy realized most letters utilized her appearance on Gotham Insider as a vehicle to denounce Ivy for the myriad of her past terrorist acts. Letter after letter cursed Ivy for killing loved ones, destroying property, and ruining lives. Their common words cast her as an unfeeling psychopath, a monster, a part she had been forced to play her entire life. No matter, she reminded herself, her skin growing cold, her eyes becoming stone, their words meant nothing. Nothing, in her opinion, had meant anything to her in a long time.

However, just as Ivy had been drained of every lingering conception of hope, she happened upon a final letter. Unlike the others, this letter was handwritten, she could almost feel care imprinted into each sentence. The letter itself was like pressed velvet bearing a reminiscent aroma of water lilies blooming in the twilight of autumn. Opening the letter, Ivy began to read:

"Dear Ms Isley,

Sorry, my name is Evelyn, you don't really know me, but after watching you on Gotham Insider last week, I wanted to let you know what I really thought about you. I have so much respect for you and thought you were absolutely amazing, I mean, you really showed everyone who didn't believe in you or agree with you just how serious and wise you really are. They're fools, all of them. I absolutely can't stand that puppet Gleason and all the self serving tripe she dishes out week after week. She has this holier than thou, I'm better than you demeanor about her, all because she was born really rich and really beautiful. But guess what Ms Isley? She's not special, she's not important. She's not like you; no, no one is like you. You are really special because you are really beautiful. Gleason is all makeup and lies to make her appear beautiful, but you, your words, your ideas, your views, are really beautiful. When will they all learn, when will the ignorant pigs learn that it is their corruption, their dirty hands that are really to blame for the destruction of our beautiful environment? Guys like that annoying, sniveling Ray Adams, he is to blame for all this, but he doesn't even get it. He carries himself like he's god's gift or something, but you know what? He's not even that good looking or half, no, a quarter as charming as he thinks. He's living in this delusional world where he can just walk all over the environment, destroy the planet, and no one will say anything about it. You are our voice Ms Isley, I know you are. I want you to know that I wholeheartedly agree with everything you said and really wish that I could live my life like you. You are so strong and beautiful. I am so ugly and weak. I really hate myself sometimes for that. I allow others to walk all over me, if only I were like you, I would have the voice to stand up for myself and let others know how I feel. I wanted to let you know that you have given me hope.

Love,

Evelyn"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Evelyn's letter crawled along the abyss of lost emotions inside Poison Ivy. It had been so long since Ivy felt as if she was understood that the feeling was a brave sensation. Someone heard her. It meant the world to her to have someone actually support her. Over and over she had only known other human beings to insult and dismiss her to the point that she assumed that was all they had to offer.

This changed things, in the subtlest, yet most profound way. In the past, Ivy had established working relationships with others. She was accustomed to the company of subservient hired muscle, but more often than not, she reserved herself to her plants. There was Harley Quinn, who considered Ivy to be her friend, but Ivy hesitated to truly label Quinn as a friend. Through Ivy's eyes, Quinn was a helpless, hapless, fool who needed to be guided by Ivy away from her own incompetence. Her infatuation with the Joker sickened Ivy. She could not tolerate seeing a young, educated woman such as Quinn demean herself by fawning over the personification of everything wrong in society; a heartless, sadistic, and callow monster who values nothing but himself and pleasures in taking advantage of others.

Here instead, this woman was a kindred spirit, dare even a friend. Finally Ivy decided to take action and write back to this woman. After all, Ivy reasoned to herself, she looks up to me, she respects me; it is my obligation to write back to her. More sincerely, Ivy wanted this feeling to last forever, and after speaking with Arkham, she was granted pen and paper to write.

"Evelyn,

I appreciate the letter you sent me and your words of encouragement. I must disagree with one point you raised; I would not flatter Ray Adams by saying he is even a quarter as charming as he thinks. In reply to your question, I feel it is important for you to grasp that you must reach out for the changes you seek in life. The world will lust for any opportunity to subdue you; you must fight back and equally assert control over yourself and the world around you. Never forget that you are special. You are important. Our beliefs will prevail above all others, and as such, we must be willing to live, and die, for them. The folly you have endured in dealing with others is that you have innately placed too much power in those around you. You should not seek respect from them. They should be trying to seek respect from you. Do not wait to be heard; scream out. Make yourself be heard. Make them afraid to hear your voice. Command and intimidate them like the paper dollars they fear and worship. You are a woman. You are stronger, you are more beautiful, you are wiser than mankind will ever fathom. My advice to you is to permanently sever yourself from their parameters and institute your own. Do not try to be their equals, become their superiors.

Poison Ivy"

The words flowed from Ivy's mind, but the one part that did require the most thought was her signature. She did not know whether to sign as Pamela Isley, or Poison Ivy. She noticed how Evelyn had shown her the respect to call her birth name. It was yet another marvelous sign that someone valued her. Concomitantly, Pamela Isley may be who she is, but not what she is.

She was Poison Ivy, an instrument of destruction, an echo of creation. Finishing the letter, she reread it once, and then sent it in the mail. However, her words mildly troubled her. Was it a lie, she asked herself. Being here, being caged had stifled so much of the fight in her. Her venous beliefs and arterial ideals had become clogged with the fat of despair. Ivy knew her letter was hypocritical as it asked Evelyn to do that which Ivy had so repeatedly failed at doing. Still, Ivy justified her words by reminding herself that it was what she truly believed in. Though bound to this cell, Isley could faintly feel the Poison Ivy in her stir and begin to grow.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

For the duration of the next several days, Poison Ivy invested her time and energy into waiting. Up until recently Ivy begrudgingly entered the waking world each morning, reluctantly being severed from the sanctuary of slumber. It had been quite some time since Ivy could remember having a reason, a cause, for waking up. Now, with the rise of each day, she too, rose to await a response to her letter.

Neurotically, Ivy began to ponder whether or not Evelyn, her friend, would respond to her letter, or if those treacherous guards and Arkham staff had even mailed her letter. The waiting was excruciating for her, yet, in a certain sense, it was also rejuvenating. Although Ivy was privy to no mirrors, she could see within herself. Inside, she felt a slow, but marked change overcoming her. Returning to her was something long missing from her life; she had something to look forward to each day.

As a result, her eagerness for Evelyn's return letter was made unmistakably evident as Ivy hurriedly sieved through her daily mail. Obliterating letter after letter, Ivy relentlessly searched for an envelope bearing the name she sought. Despite her consistent failure to find a letter from Evelyn, Ivy curiously did not feel disappointed. Consciously, she found herself wondering why Evelyn's lack of response did not bother her. To the contrary, Ivy subconsciously hoped to never actually receive her letter for fear of closure. So long as Ivy never received the letter, then she would always be able to look forward to receiving the letter. In this sad comfort, Ivy nestled.

In an instant, all this changed. Rummaging through her daily mail one morning, Poison Ivy stumbled upon a letter that stood out from the rest. To her chagrin and matching intrigue, the letter was addressed from a Mr. Ray Adams. Hesitant at first, Ivy questioned if she should open the letter or tear it to shreds on sight. The man who insulted her and stood in marked opposition to everything she believed in now had the audacity to write to her. Concurrently, she also felt strangely interested in reading what he could possibly have to say to her. As her mind wrapped around these thoughts, she began to crave reading the letter, praying that he would try to insult her or quarrel with her again. This time, things would be different; this time they were not on a national stage with the unforgiving spotlight stalking her. If he was foolish enough to want a war with her, then surely she would oblige. Opening the letter, she began to read:

"Miss Pamela Isley,

I'm sure you are probably wondering why I, of all people, have written to you, but I felt it necessary to make one thing clear. When last we spoke, I did not have the opportunity to voice my opinion of our discussion. It was so refreshing to speak to someone with a mind of their own, someone who believes in something. My employees, employers, friends, lovers, they all speak through an agenda, not a voice. Everyone in this world is merely looking for an opportunity to strike, an advantage to exploit in others to further their own profit. They have no virtues or values; no passion. They patronize the pursuit of the almighty dollar and gluttonous father. You, Miss Isley, you are different. You showed me that you stand for something, and are not afraid to be different. In a lot of ways, you and I are alike. I know that thought probably terrifies you, but I wouldn't say it if I didn't wholeheartedly believe it. A lot of people don't care about the poor or respect them, much the same as they are apathetic to the environment. In truth, most people don't even respect themselves. I don't agree with your point of view and I'm not here to pretend I do, but I respect your resolve and more importantly, I do respect your point of view. I understand how difficult it can be to try and move society forward when it seems like everything is regressing. I know, sometimes it feels like, God I don't know, it's like, everyone just wants a persistence of time. No one wants a change. Sedentary life, in my opinion at least, is tantamount to a degenerative life. I also wanted to write and tell you that I am sorry I was so rude to you. I am a very passionate person, much as you, about the issue, but that's not an excuse for my behavior. I was caught up in the moment and my emotions got the best of me, and I apologize. I do not apologize or regret arguing with you, but I am sorry that I was, more or less, a big jerk.

Sincerely,

Ray Adams."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Nothing seems to escape the cell walls in Arkham Asylum. Poison Ivy's confusion was no exception. Reflecting back at her were resonate threnodies of the myriad of thoughts plaguing her. A week had passed since she first read his letter, and still, Ivy had no idea how to react. Her shock pulsated from the incomprehensible fact that the letter nonchalantly shattered her preconception of what it would contain.

She insatiably reread the letter, as if searching for something she knew was there, but could not find. She was looking for something obvious, a blatant explanation that it was all a lie or a bizarre joke. Life would be so much easier if only things were linear and straightforward.

There were worlds within his words. Ivy had found herself lost in them. A prisoner once again in a foreign land she knew she did not belong in. The sincerity, the heartfelt honesty in his letter sliced through even her most turgid emotional defenses, evoking mutual rage and adore. Intuitively, she assumed this was his attempt at subversively pacifying her. In his mind, he probably sees her as nothing more than a dangerous psychopath. Realizing that he had come to blows with Poison Ivy, he soberly wrote the letter to try and undo the damage his mouth had caused. The fool, Ivy wanted to believe.

Irregardless of her desire to hate the man, Ivy found that she could not. Her dainty feet walked along the fine line between love and hate. If truly hate was her lone feeling, then she knew she would not spend her days repeatedly going over every last line of text in the letter. Those words, his gentle, yet self assured tone melted feelings believed ice inside her. She tried so hard to fight it, but she could not deny herself the truth forever. No one ever can.

The truth was Poison Ivy had never heard someone apologize to her. Since she was a child, an adorable embodiment of innocence, she was always the first, and only, one who seemed to apologize. As she aged, she saw more and more of humanity, and it disgusted her. She grew weary of feeling sorry and swore to live unapologetically by the strength of her conviction. Unfortunately, she could never wholly have fidelity in her promise because the dark days would unceasingly creep upon. It was in these times she would ask herself why she had to be different, why no one else felt the way she did. Did it eternally have to be her fighting against the entire world?

Ray Adams had changed that. It was a tiny, insignificant piece of paper, but it meant the world to her. Without fail, she reread his letter before she went to bed and immediately when she woke up. On the seventh day she made a decision. Indecisively, she had debated on whether or not she should write back to him. If she wrote back, it would change everything and possibly taint the sweetness of the letter. She knew she had to risk it; as he had found it necessary to let her know his opinion of their discussion, so too did she. This time, her thoughts did not freely flow as she lengthily deliberated on each line. Finally, she wrote:

"Mr. Adams,

Do not think that your flowery vocabulary will gloss over the issue and distract me from my stance. That is not the case, nor will it ever. That being said, I will avail you a small measure of credit. For a mindless flesh automaton, you show potential, albeit microscopic, for you and your kind. You at least have the strength and courage to admit when you are wrong.

Poison Ivy"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Like the conversion of night to day, Poison Ivy had undergone a metamorphosis of sorts inside her cell. Despite her static occupancy of her cell, there was something freeing about expressing herself through her two letters to Evelyn and Ray respectively. The pen and paper were the Rosetta stone unlocking her voice, and now she had been heard. It may have been only two people, but it did not matter; they were listening, they cared.

Moved by the chimes of freedom's bell, life slowly began to course through her olive skin. She found herself curious again. More often than not, she found herself in a hush in the early hours of the morning so as to listen intently to the feint pitter patter of delicate rain drops against the walls of the asylum. With her cherub cheeks pressed against the east wall in her cell, she excitedly awaited the sound she had grown to love, and when finally came the low, muffled wash of water droplets she would remember the garden outside her cell. She was so tempted to return her wilting flower to the garden, but she was still wary of trusting its fate to the cold and unpredictable world outside. She just couldn't. That simple joy would mean nothing to anyone else, but to her, it was everything. Almost everything, she was soon to remind herself. There was one other thing that woke her each day. The wait, such a familiar embrace, had consumed her.

Following the letter she had sent to Mr. Adams, she did not have to wait very long for a response. However, she did not receive the response she was secretly hoping for. Instead, later in the week she obtained a letter from Evelyn. It was rather anticlimactic for Ivy. She would never admit it, but she was in greater anticipation to see if Mr. Adams had the gall to reply to her letter. No matter, Evelyn's letter would suffice for the time being, and she read:

"Poison Ivy,

Thank you so much for your wonderful advice, you have really changed my life so much! I am really so appreciative that you took the time to read what I had to say and bless me with your wisdom. I really don't even know where to begin. This past week has been so unforgettable. I don't know if you remember me or not, but I wrote to you last week and you told me to make them afraid to hear my voice, and that is exactly how I live my life now. I do exactly as you said. My boss has always refused me a raise, but I have always been really too timid to really ask for one. After reading your letter, I decided that I could not ask for a raise, I had to demand a raise. I told him that I deserved more money. I told him that I perform the most dangerous tasks and risk my life where others are too scared, and I should be paid accordingly! Guess what he did? He backed down and granted me a raise, just like you said! He had no fight in him, not even the bark of a coward! Not only that, but, I share an apartment with my brother, and he is really so unappreciative of all I do for him, for the both of us. He is always insulting me and being so condescending. I used to wish he would stop or pray that one day he would change, but then you taught me that I need to be the one to change. I returned his condemning eyes right back at him and yelled at him for being a lazy, freeloading, jerk, and if he didn't start showing me respect, I would kick him out on the street then and there. Well, guess what? He got down on his knees and begged my forgiveness. He was really nervous and afraid. He looked at me like his life was dangling in the balance. Isn't that great?! I cannot thank you enough Poison Ivy. You have really changed my life for the better. You are my idol, I want to be just like you, you are really the best Gotham has to offer. Thanks again.

Love,

Evelyn"

Although her letter was, perhaps overly, complimentary, Ivy noticed how droll it was. Ivy appreciated Evelyn's allegiance both to her and the environment, she truly did, but it was becoming abundantly clear that Evelyn was as paper-thin as the canvas for her words. Ivy realized that Evelyn inherently lacked a mind, or voice, of her own.

In stark contrast, the next day, Ivy was quite surprised to receive a second letter from Mr. Adams. Instantly, she was filled with a feverish rush of adrenaline. Her last letter was brimming with confrontational language, which she hoped would spark his rage. In her twisted mind, she looked forward to hurting this man. After all, he had wounded the environment, and in return, she consciously longed to desecrate what he valued most; his pride. Thirsting for him to express a childlike vitriol for her, she fervently opened his letter, which read:

"Dear Miss Isley,

I appreciate that you took the time to read and respond to my concerns, but one thing you had said startled me quite a bit. In your letter, you said something to the effect that I had the strength to admit when I was wrong. I had apologized to you because I felt that some things that I had said and my overall tone were not very nice. I hold firmly in that feeling, and I still believe that I was very rigged and terse during the discussion. As I have already stated, I was, and am, very emotional about this issue, and as such, during our discussion my emotions escalated and I passionately defended my point of view. I admit, I was overly emotional and acted rudely. But wrong? I ask you, Pamela, can an emotion be wrong? Is it wrong to be passionate? Is it wrong to follow your heart to its fullest extension? Surely, things I had said were scathing and inappropriate, but why wrong? As you would say, it is indicative of emotions to be emotional. It is the nature of the beast. Think about it.

Sincerely,

Ray Adams"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Between the endless seconds lost in the blink of an eye, the world around her disappeared. The metallic cell walls and fluorescent light slipped away. Her feeble concept of reality shook ever so slightly, ever so greatly.

Alone with her thoughts, Poison Ivy was sobered by Ray Adams' sentiment. She hated to have to agree with him, she hated agreeing with anyone for that matter, but she knew in her heart that he was correct. It was as if he was her, and she had become the person she assumed him to be. Reluctantly, she accepted that she was wrong. Her razing remarks in her letter were out of line, written with only the flimsy intention of inflicting pain.

In all honesty, it deeply troubled her how cold and conventionally driven her last letter to Adams was. Merely thinking about her rancid letter was sufficient to utterly disgust her very core. Her language, her tone was so detached, so unforgiven. It came, not of her heart, but of a soulless mechanical center that remorselessly penned each line.

That wasn't her. That was Arkham. That was the police, the rich, the Batman even, but not her. At long last, she culled the strength to tell herself, that was not Pamela Lillian Isley. She knew herself. The road she had traveled on had been daunting. She knew that; she accepted that. As her life had unfolded, she had lost countless battles, some small, some enormous, but this was a defeat no living creature could tolerate.

This was a loss of her identity.

In her kept isolation, she feared she had allowed this beastly world to devour her every aspect of existence. The wages of war for acceptance amidst assimilation had gradually taken its toll, the ultimate toll, on her. Her sickest fear had manifested that moment as she realized she had become just like everyone else. Her letter was an unbearable reflection of the cold machine she had become.

Ivy knew she had to fight it. She had lost to the Batman, she had lost to the police, but she would never lose herself by becoming them, and so she fought back. It was something she had to do. Her emotional fist would wound herself first, she conceded, but understood it was a necessary evil to rescue the greater good.

Thus, Poison Ivy, as determined as she was tentative, drew a new letter to respond to Ray Adams:

"Dear Mr. Adams,

Your letter gave me a lot to think about. You asked me if emotions can be wrong. I have known the answer all my life, but at some point, the world made me forget. In many ways, emotions are all we have, maybe even all we are capable of. I said once that a folly of mankind is their turned back towards nature, that man refuses to accept that it is merely a part of nature. The stern machinations of society churning towards greed and corruption drift humanity away from its natural rooting. It is warmth, passion, and emotion that reinforce our innate bond with the natural side of us. You are correct, Mr. Adams; emotions are never wrong. I…I am sorry for my rude behavior and frigid letter I sent to you previously. My last letter was devoid of emotion, but Poison Ivy is passion. Thank you for reminding me.

Poison Ivy"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

After mailing the letter Poison Ivy felt reborn. Her humble honesty mightily unlocked her innermost desires and beliefs. She was scared at first, hesitant to be so candid in her letter, especially to one she had never even met face to face. She could not explain it, but there was something curative in the purity of acknowledging she was wrong, and more precisely, saying she was sorry. Years had gone by since she could recall apologizing to anyone for anything. The many lives she had taken, the many more lives she had destroyed never made her bat an eye. She felt no remorse for those who received due punishment for their sins of affluence, but this, this was different entirely.

She began to realize that she had apologized not only to Ray Adams, but also to herself in a way. Carrying the weight of society's conventional dictates on her gentle shoulders was exhausting, and finally, through her apology, she was able to shed this imposed skin and feel the sun, the truth press against her once more. She was sorry for giving in, she was sorry for assimilating into the bleak culture surrounding her, and her apology allowed her to forgive herself and move on. With the help of this man, the patience and understanding he had shown her had, perhaps, saved her. Though Poison Ivy's arms and legs were still subject to the chains of Arkham, Pamela Lillian Isley had been liberated.

Presently, the world around her intrigued her, and once more, she felt a yearning to reach out and be a part of it, experience this Earth in all its naked allure. The beauty of life was all around her, and the embrace of Ray's letter had rekindled her affection for the waking world. In truth, his letter gave her hope for both this world and herself. Maybe it was worth it, she convinced herself. Maybe it was worth living after all.

Even the air that once choked her inside her cell was now resuscitative. But it was not enough. Not anymore. No, Ivy's renewed lust for life could no longer be pacified by listening to the trickling splashes of rain outside. Her mounting esteem returned her attention to her faithful lover and friend, her wilting flower. It was time, she decided. It was time.

Finally, Isley had the impetus to not be afraid of anything or anyone anymore. Following a brief conversation with Jeremiah Arkham, Isley was permitted an hour a day to plant her rose in the garden and tend to it. Her raw enthusiasm swallowed remnant vagaries of fear and caution as Isley joyously stepped out from under the grim atmosphere of Arkham's gate and made her way towards the garden.

As soon as her delicate feet touched the grass Earth, a magnificent prism of natural light and senses reinvented her. For a fleeting second, it felt strange to be outside. Months had unraveled since the Batman brought her here, and in that time, she had lost track of time. She remembered snow and hail as she shivered entering the asylum, but now the warm glow of nature enlightened her that it was spring.

Excitedly, Pamela replanted her lover into the soil. She fell in love all over again as her sensitive fingers reached into the ground and wed with the dirt. Symbiotically, she had intimately become a part of it, and it too, had become a part of her. She could not believe that it was she who had denied her the bliss of nature itself. The orange sun above her, the golden brown soil around her, captured her heart. She cried softly there, her knees pointed into the dirt of the garden. She had never been so genuinely happy in her tragic, lonely life.

Each day she looked forward to getting to go outside and tend to the garden. The hour went by so quickly that it made her stay in Arkham feel shorter and shorter. It was so freeing to have something to look forward to each day instead of dismally slipping further into personal abyss. No longer was she imprisoned by her despair and comatose existence. Rather, she met each day in genuine anticipation of all she would get to experience, making the most of her time in Arkham.

In step with Isley's bourgeoning passion for life, her rose rapidly blossomed in its natural environment. Proudly, its stem firmly straightened, adorned by a gorgeous array of exotic rose petals. The rose, much like Isley, was becoming what it was always meant to be. Her lover's unreal beauty further reinforced Isley's resolve to stop fighting herself and just live.

Weeks harmoniously lived and passed for Poison Ivy, until one afternoon, she was delighted by a surprise. In her hands, she held another letter from Ray Adams, and continuing her elation from just being outside in her garden, she gleefully opened it. To her further surprise, she immediately noticed this letter was handwritten in the vein of her own letters, dissimilar his previous letters. She never expected him to write her again, but oh, how wonderful it made her feel that he did. She didn't understand her feelings, but it did not concern her one bit. She knew she was excited, she knew she was happy. That was all that truly mattered.

"Dear Miss Isley,

Thank you. I am very appreciative that you, unlike so many other people, have the capacity to listen and hear others. I must confess…this may sound weird but, I do genuinely look forward to checking my mail each day to see if you have written me back. I am a man fueled by my work trying to help people and heal society, but…it's nice to have someone who I can talk to. Not someone to talk at or someone to sycophantically agree with everything I say and yes me to death; someone I can really talk to. Anyway, make of it what you will. I just thought you deserved to know how I feel.

Sincerely,

Ray Adams"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

It was all so new to her, so unfamiliar, yet she instinctively reacted to it in the most natural way imaginable. A part of her had fallen in love, and it scared her. Love was such an impossibility she kept telling herself. She had sacrificed that possibility the moment she accepted that she would never be understood by another human being, driving her to change the world to reflect her views. The day, many moons ago, she had become Poison Ivy.

However, Pamela Isley was becoming different, splintering away from the thorny, embittered Poison Ivy. Ray's gentle openness filled her with an unbridled ecstasy that overwhelmed her senses. Preceding thought, her cheeks blushed with a familiar shade of red shared by her rose's petals as she read his letter for the first time. It didn't make sense, she told herself, over and over. They were both so different from each other. Their perspectives on the world, their values in life were as far from each other as their physical bodies. Why then did she feel so strongly about him? He represented everything she hated, but was the only person she loved.

For the past several days, she had admired the heavenly beauty of nature, but she found equal beauty in the honesty of his letter. It was so disarmingly beautiful how he wondered if he was being weird. The frailty in his question mixed with his determination to still say how he felt melted her icicle veins. He knew exactly how she felt because he felt the exact same way. She felt such a powerful connection with him. While Isley mentally enjoyed dialoguing with Evelyn, their common bond of environmental values was their only link. Otherwise, they were two entirely different people. Evelyn was a mindless puppet, a sycophantic yes man.

Conversely, Ray was different. He was strong and passionate, but at the same time gentle and compassionate. Akin to Ray, Isley instantly felt she too had to express how she felt. Pen in hand and paper in sight Isley began to write, and as she did, she began to smile. She paused a moment, taken aback at the immediacy of her natural smile, and continued to write:

"Dear Ray Adams,

I want you to know that I don't think it is weird at all. You were right when you said once that we are a lot alike. We are. I thought I was the only one who did this, but each day, I wait for your letters in anticipation. I like talking to you too. Oh, and I'd also like to thank you for something. I have a special rose that I love and used to always keep at my side in my cell. It was you who inspired me to plant my precious rose outside in the little garden they have there. It probably doesn't sound like much I guess, but, for what it's worth, it means a lot to me.

Sincerely,

Pamela Isley"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

She had meant every single word she had said in her letter. For years, she was accustomed only to the emotional consumption of roiling hatred, but in the days that came to pass, she was blissfully swept up in an emotional gale of love. It was quite a departure from the familiarly numbing, yet sustaining stagnation of resentment. She had almost forgotten what love felt like for a time. No, she forced herself to remember, she always loved her plants, and they in turn, loved her. She could always depend on nature to cherish her. However, as time wore on, her elation stemming from her blooming feelings allowed her to consider the possibility that she can love and be loved by this man in a way her plants and nature never could.

No matter how closely she held her flower, it could never hold her back. Still, there were times in her life it had felt like it was holding her back.

After returning to her cell one evening after tending to the garden, she was greeted by a letter from Evelyn. She had sent no reply to Evelyn, and was mildly curious to see what Evelyn had written. For a time, Isley had forgotten about her mail, save from one man. Nature's beauty, even from within Arkham, was so majestic that it consumed her mind and body completely. That, coupled with the fact that the bulk of viewer mail she used to receive had depleted over time, caused her to rarely receive more than a letter or so a week. It did not concern her though. She was weary of the cell, weary of that life. The hour or so she spent outside was more sacred to her than the totality of her sentence.

Nonetheless, Isley indulged Evelyn and read her letter:

"Dear Poison Ivy,

Hi, this is Evelyn again, I don't know if you remember me, but you told me that I should make others afraid of my voice, and I really just wanted to thank you again for your advice. I haven't received your reply from my last letter, but I really wanted to let you know again how great you really are. You are my idol. I believe in you. You are our voice. You are the chosen one to save our society. You are the one who has the power to make our dreams and hopes for the world really come true. They really don't understand; they will never understand. You have to lead us and make them really understand. It is really a travesty that you are caged when the politicians and businessmen are really the animals that should be locked up and executed. Poison Ivy, you are our voice. Make them hear you.

Love,

Evelyn, always"

Isley exhaled. Evelyn's letter truly disappointed. At a glance, they seemed perfect for each other, but Isley was all too aware that seldom do things end how they were meant to. Isley could fool herself no longer and admitted how shallow Evelyn's letters were. She had grown to loathe her idolatrous tone and superfluous adulations. Through Evelyn's unending stream of compliments, Isley began to unearth just how hollow flattery was.

Isley also cringed each and every time Evelyn redundantly misused the word "really." It had no meaning when Evelyn used it, but the one time Ray had used it made everything seem so perfect. In her desperation, Pamela sought a friendship with Evelyn because she wanted, no, needed to see Evelyn as a kindred spirit; someone who understood her. That was not the case though. They may share the same beliefs, the same ideals, but they are not the same.

Isley finally allowed herself to realize that.

As Ivy closed her mind to Evelyn, she heard the sharp rattle of the locks on her cell as the door creaked opened. Among all the hideous facets of Arkham Asylum, the one aspect she utterly despised the most was how the guards or staff would barbarously force their way into her torturous sanctuary. She wished it didn't always have to be this way, but she knew it was a fool's dream to think it would ever change.

On the other side of the door Jeremiah Arkham stood with an uncharacteristic content look on his face. His transparent excitement stroked his tongue as he resolutely stated, "Miss Isley, you have a visitor." His words hung in the air as if spoken by a proud parent, but Poison Ivy has no family, and she never has visitors.

In the myriad of times Ivy had been sentenced to Arkham Asylum, never had she been visited by anyone. No one cared about her. Irregardless, it made no difference, Poison Ivy had no desire to be seen by anyone either. She hated humanity. Today, this very moment, she did not know how to feel. Betrayed by her heart, her mind repeatedly tried to convince her that it was pointless to see a visitor. What would it mean anyway? Certainly, it would be a cruel joke to be reminded of freedom only to have it through a glass shield. Bottled inside this asylum like so many of her feelings, Isley was mentally apprehensive, but her heart longed for the simple thrill of communication. She hungered to hear another human being's voice.

Cautiously, Isley walked towards the visitation block as Arkham and two male guards stringently followed behind her. Isley felt curious as to where the usual female guard overseeing her cell was, but as she arrived at the visitation room, her mind quickly abandoned the thought. The room seemed faded and worn, but to Isley, the sensation of being in this new area of the asylum fascinated her. Her eyes briefly roamed around the room, examining each intricate cobweb and putrid stain on the walls until the guards motioned for her to be seated.

Sitting down, to her left was the telephone and in front of her was the impenetrable glass shield, the social dividing line between those labeled sane and those labeled insane. In the seconds before her visitor arrived, she began to panic, feverishly considering who it could be. She knew who she wanted it to be, but she also knew that who she wanted it to be had no bearing on who it actually would be.

Then it happened. In an almost hypnotic gaze, her eyes focused on the man walking towards her, and immediately knew it was Ray Adams. Staring back at her through the glass shield, his eyes were a marvelous reflection of the radiant adore in her eyes. He seemed so different from the man she saw on the monitor screen many weeks ago. There he was cocky, here he was lovely.

For a time the two merely admired each other. The ramifications of their mutual expressions voiced their shared relief and pleasure that the other was excited to see them. Eventually, Ray lightly motioned for Pamela to pick up her telephone as he did his, and gently, he began to speak, "…You were wrong; what means a lot to you does have a lot of meaning. It is important. You are important." As he spoke, he had emphasized the word "you," his words virtually singing inside of Isley as they reverberated within each chamber of her heart.

Soulfully he continued, "…I am sorry that you have been made to feel like you don't matter, that what is meaningful and special to you is not important. But, for what it's worth, it meant a lot to me that you would trust and confide what means a lot to you in me."

Pamela tenderly reached forward and touched the image of his beautiful face, her hand imprinting on the glass. She was falling even more in love with him. It pained her to admit it, but it would have killed her to deny it. His words were so delicate and sincere. There was passion and vulnerability emblazoned in his speech that was so natural, so beautiful. Desperately holding in tears, Isley closed her eyes and softly spoke into her end of the telephone, "…Thank you."

In a steel cauldron of chaos and insanity, the only thing that made sense in this world to them was their love. They may have only been allotted twenty minutes to talk, but they had made the most of their time together and enjoyed every last second.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Good evening, I'm Summer Gleason, and welcome to another edition of Gotham Insider. Last month, we presented a historic discussion featuring philanthropist Ray Adams and notorious criminal Poison Ivy in a heated discussion about Gotham invasive species and habitat destruction. In the aftermath of that ratings shattering show, we would like to provide Gotham with a follow up on that story. Viewers may be shocked by the fallout of the discussion, and in the studio tonight, we have special guest Ray Adams returning."

As she finished speaking, the camera panned outward, revealing Ray Adams entering into the studio set. On camera a second time now, Ray cordially shook hands with Ms Gleason and gifted a smile towards the audience. "Confidently, he opened, "Thank you for having me again, it is a pleasure to be back."

"The pleasure is all ours Mr. Adams," and in that sentiment, Summer was entirely correct. She could care less about Ray as a man or what he had to say in of itself. She and her entire studio championed instead what he symbolized to them. The hyena eyes of the media cared only for the salivary story and controversy emanating from this man, this piece of social prey.

Summer seamlessly went on, "Now Ray, following your appearance last month, you have enjoyed a degree of celebrity in Gotham. Your fierce conviction and your riveting social commentary have become an inspirational battle-cry for Gothamites to stand up and take action to better our fair city. What a lot of viewers are not aware of, will perhaps surprise and amaze them."

"I would say so," Ray nonchalantly inserted, and then allowed Summer to resume, "A lot of viewers anxiously watched as you and Poison Ivy intensely defended your respective beliefs. Although sharp words were exchanged, the argument did not degenerate into a verbal assault on either party. The story, it seemed, ended there, but apparently more to this story has been added over the past several days."

Relaxed in his chair, Ray eased further against his back rest and remarked, "That is correct." Summer, bubbling with excitement, could not wait to break the story, and delved further, "The story has taken a rather bizarre twist as rumors have begun to swirl around Gotham that you, Ray Adams, have been seen venturing to Arkham Asylum and entering its premises as a visitor. Once inside, sources indicate that you spend your time conversing with none other than Poison Ivy."

Summer temporarily paused as she sensed the gravity of her claim ground her live audience. Giving them a moment to digest this almost preposterous assertion, Summer continued, "Ray, how do you respond to these rumors?"

Self assuredly, Ray maintained his lax posture and replied, "Summer, I would like everyone to know that these rumors are entirely valid; I have been going to Arkham to visit Pamela Isley." Fascinated by his bluntness, Summer pressed on, "I think I speak for the viewing audience by saying that it is quite shocking that you would travel to Arkham Asylum to speak with a woman whom you so acidly argued against. I think the question on everyone's mind now is the nature of these conversations."

Ray sat up in his chair, his face growing more serious, and candidly he told her, "I think that is just it Summer. I think the fact that we did have such an "acidic" argument, as you put it, that we have developed such a mutual respect for each other. It is not often that you find someone unafraid to disagree and be different. It is also just as rare to find someone who truly believes in something and is willing to fight for it. I have found that in Pamela Isley. Surely we clash on our values and ideals, but we are the same type of person. She is not a slave to convention or money or ratings, no offense Ms Gleason, she is a free human being; perhaps the freest person I have ever met in my life."

For a second, Summer took offense to his scathing remark. She was a successful and respected journalist who prided herself on being the best. However, as soon as these thoughts emerged they passed. It was about ratings, first and foremost, and this story had captivated Gotham. Who was Summer Gleason to go against society?

In response to Ray, Summer remarked, "All irony aside, it sounds as if you have a very high opinion of Poison Ivy. You seem quite fond of her. Every Gothamite is dying to know: have you grown to like Poison Ivy?"

Preceding thought, he acted on his thumping emotion and naturally responded, "I love her." As if thunder struck dead inside the center of the studio, the entire audience, Summer Gleason included, sat bedazzled by three words. In a flashing instant, the city was silent, deafened by what they had heard, but only one person, one woman, was truly listening. Shelled inside the core of the asylum, Pamela was permitted to watch Gotham Insider. Ray had told her he had been invited to do a follow up story, and Jeremiah Arkham obliged her request to be able to see the show.

By herself, she sat and watched, but as those three words escaped his lips, she knew she was not alone anymore. The decayed part of her soul immediately retracted her mind and furiously questioned the nerve, the audacity of this man to, to think that of her. But this stone defense crumbled.

It felt so good to hear that somebody loved her. Her plants had their own ways, she quickly rethought, her plants had numerous ways of telling and showing her they loved her. But there was something undeniably real about how he had made her feel. It had been so long since she had felt loved. It was so incredible, so wonderful that someone loved her, Poison Ivy, Pamela Isley. Ecstatic, Isley was full of the splendor of life once more and waited in anticipation to see him again.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Trickles of rain tore her from her thoughts and returned her to reality. As she tended to her garden, she had fantasized about the future and her plans when she would be released. Up until recently, the future was a clouded enemy shrouded in uncertainty. The future, she began to see, might not be so bad.

With the descent of the first droplets of rain, Isley overheard one male guard remark to another guard, "There's supposed to be a huge storm tomorrow morning." In reply, the other male guard wryly said, "Looks like it is getting started a little early." The imbeciles, Isley thought as she continued serenely tilling the soil. She already sensed their discomfort and fear of the ensuing storm when it is merely thunder and rain. After all, what are thunder and rain but light and water; two vital elements of life.

She dreamt that night. For nine hours she had been whisked away to a better place; somewhere she belonged. Ripped from wonderful slumber there was so much she could not remember. It didn't seem to bother her. She knew Ray had been there, and she knew she had not been here in Arkham.

Outside she could hear, even feel, the downpour of the morning storm crashing against the building in a maelstrom of wind and lightning. For all its apparent fury and destruction, it was as natural as her return to the waking world. Rolling onto her side in bed, she was greeted by a new letter delivered earlier. Normally she hated the bed. She always saw it as a lie. The bed was deceivingly soft and warm, but the truth was that Arkham was frosted and uncaring. That is why she spent most of her time on the floor; at least the chilling touch was real. Since she planted her rose in the garden however, she had been reminded of what warmth was. For all its flaws and inequity, Arkham, any place she realized, was at least capable of comforting beauty.

Lively exiting the bed she walked towards the lone unopened letter in her cell. Although a part of her hoped it was from Ray, she was immediately disappointed when she read the address. To her dismay, it was yet another letter from Evelyn. Briefly, Pamela debated whether she should even bother to read her letter. It was always the same thing with her. Nothing ever changed.

Regardless, Evelyn did look up to her and was there for her when she had no one and nothing. She deserved to have her thoughts be heard. However, as Pamela began to read, her mood quickly shifted as she became increasingly unsettled by the erratic handwriting and manic tone:

"Poison Ivy,

I, I don't understand… I looked up to you. I believed in you. I, I, I WORSHIPED YOU! How could you do this to me? I was the only one who really loved you and this is how you repay me, how you repay us? With him? WITH HIM! THE SYMBOL OF ALL THAT IS WRONG IN THIS MISERABLE WORLD and you…love him? I…HE IS AN ANIMAL, HE IS NOT HUMAN, HE IS NOT WORTHY OF EVEN BREATHING THE SAME AIR AS YOU AND I! YOU HAVE SOLD OUT, YOU HAVE SOLD US ALL OUT AND BETRAYED US! HOW, HOW COULD YOU EVER LOVE OUR ENEMY? HE IS THE PERSONIFICATION OF EVERYTHING WE HATE, EVERYTHING WE HAVE EVER FOUGHT AGAINST, BUT YOU WANT HIM? YOU CARE FOR HIM? Is that what you want? YOU WANT TO MARRY HIM SOMEDAY AND HAVE LITTLE CONSUMER BABIES AND FORGET EVERYTHING YOU EVER FOUGHT FOR AND BELIEVED IN? I BET YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU… YOU, YOU FREAK! YOU DISGUST ME, YOU SICKEN ME…I, I believed in you, HOW COULD YOU HURT ME LIKE THIS, I, I want to believe it's not true, I WANT TO BELIEVE ITS ALL A LIE, SO MUCH OF LIFE IS A TWISTED LIE, PLEASE TELL ME ITS ALL WRONG…BUT YOU CAN'T CAN YOU? NO, THAT'S WHY YOU HAVEN'T ANSWERED ANY OF MY LAST LETTERS BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO BUSY STICKING YOUR TONGUE DOWN THE THROAT OF HIDEOUS CONFORMITY. YOU, you're just like everyone else, aren't you? DEEP DOWN INSIDE YOU JUST WANT TO BE WITH THIS PIG! DON'T YOU! DON'T YOU! I BET YOU DREAM ABOUT HIM DON'T YOU! YOU IMAGINE THE TWO OF YOU TOGETHER, FOREVER, ISN'T THAT RIGHT, YOU HEARTLESS, SOULLESS, CONFORMING FREAK! IT'S MORE THAN THAT ISN'T IT! ISN'T IT! I BET YOU FANTASIZE IN YOUR TINY LITTLE BED WRAPPED UNDER YOUR WARM LITTLE SHEETS ABOUT BEING HIS WIFE AND LIVING A TINY LITTLE CONVENTIONAL LIFE…YOU FANTASIZE ABOUT BEING HIS WIFE, HIS, HIS SLAVE FOR THE REST OF YOUR WASTED LIFE! YOU DREAM ABOUT HAVING KIDS AND LIVING IN THE SUBURBS AND FORGETTING ALL ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT AND WRONGS OF SOCIETY AND, and the one woman who really loved you more than you will ever deserve to know.

So that's how you want it huh? You really want to be with him in your fairytale life and forget about the cause, forget about me? I guess if he's sooooooo great and amazing, maybe I'd like him too right? I like that idea. Maybe I would want to meet him. What do you think about that freak, huh? Maybe I'd like to visit him right now. If he's really so great and loving that the great sell-out freak Poison Ivy is willing to grace him with her selective love and affection, then maybe little old Evelyn would like him too? Right, RIGHT?!?! Maybe I should drive to his home and pay him a visit like he so often does for you? Or maybe, I'm already there. Maybe I already broke into his house. Maybe I'm waiting for him to come home so I can talk to him. Maybe I'm waiting inside his bedroom closet for him to come home and undress. Maybe I'm holding a rusted butcher knife in my left hand freak. Maybe I'm writing this while I wait for him to come home to where he thinks it is safe, where nothing can possibly ever go wrong. I bet you wish you were here don't you, you freak! Can you taste his scent on the paper freak? CAN YOU? HIS BEDROOM REAKS OF THE STENCH OF A BLOATED PIG AND THE BLOOD OF THE ENVIRONMENT! SOON, so soon, there will be another overwhelming stench in his home. Soon the stench of rotted, decaying flesh will pulse through his home once I'm through with him. Are you scared freak? I am. But unlike you, it fuels me. The horror drives me and caresses me. It won't be long now; I know when he comes home. Every night at 7:31, he opens the door and makes his way upstairs. Oh, yes, I've been watching him, stalking him for some time. I bet you wish you were me, huh freak? I bet you could be so close, so intimate with his clothes in this closet. I can almost feel him all around me. Yes I can, his musk is all over his filthy clothes. It won't be long now, freak. No not long at all. It's 7:29 now, I can feel it coming. When I was younger, I used to hold this very same butcher knife and cut my tongue to see what it would feel like. The blood would burn as it slithered down my tongue. Even now I can still see traces of my own stained blood on the blade. I'm going to carve him up and feast on the heart that you so lust after. Wait, I can hear his car parking in the driveway… the key is turning, the door is opening… I can hear muffled footsteps… he's getting closer, closer, but he has no idea of what is waiting for him. The bedroom door is opening, he's here…

I'M BACK, FREAK… MY, MY HANDS ARE TREMBLING, MY FINGERS ARE TRICKLING, AND MY LIPS ARE THIRSTING FOR MORE BLOOD! IT WAS BEAUTIFUL, FREAK, SO MARVELOUSLY, SENSUOUSLY BEAUTIFUL! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT DID THAT, YET IT FELT SO FAMILIAR, SO, SO NATURAL… I WATCHED AS HE UNDRESSED. HE PEELED OFF LAYER AFTER LAYER OF HIS WRETCHED BUSINESS CLOTHES, DRENCHED IN THE AGONY OF THE INNOCENT, AND WAITED. I WAITED FOR WHAT FELT LIKE YEARS, AND THEN, AT HIS MOST VULNREBALE, I EXPLODED OUT OF HIS CLOSET AND ATTACKED! THERE HE WAS, THE GREAT AND HANDSOME MAN YOU LOVE SOOOO MUCH, NAKED AND HELPLESS. FEEBLY HE TRIED TO FIGHT BACK, BUT IT WAS TOO LATE, HE DID NOT HAVE ANY HOPE IN THE WORLD OF STOPPING ME. HE DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CHANCE TO SAY A WORD! I FORCED MYSELF ON HIM AND STRUCK DEEP WITH MY KNIFE INTO HIS KIDNEY. A BRILLIANT RIVER OF BLOOD AND FILTRATE BURST OUT OF HIS SIDE. THEN WAS THE BEST PART, THE PART THAT CHILLED AND WARMED ME ALL AT ONCE. HE SCREAMED IN A PASSIONATE SYMPHONY OF PAIN AND DEFEAT, BUT I DID NOT RELENT, NO, DID YOU RELENT WHEN YOU TRAMPLED MY EVERY EMOTION AND BELIEF IN YOU, FREAK? NO, YOU DID NOT, AND LIKE YOU, I MERCILESSLY CONTINUED MY SAVAGE ART. I HAD STABBED SO DEEP IN HIS KIDNEY THAT I HAD TO USE ALL MY STRENGTH TO PULL THE KNIFE BACK OUT OF HIM. DRENCHED IN HIS PULPING INNARDS, I DREW THE KNIFE ONCE MORE AND JAGGEDLY SLASHED ACROSS THE GORGEOUS FACE YOU WISH YOU COULD KISS, RIGHT FREAK! HIS PANICKED CRY STARTLED ME AS THE BLADE RAN ACROSS HIS FACE, WHICH NERVOUSLY CAUSED ME TO JAM THE POINT OF THE KNIFE THROUGH HIS LEFT EYEBALL AND OUT HIS SKULL. I THOUGHT THE EYE WOULD LYSE LIKE A VITREUOUS SPHERE, BUT IT FELT MORE LIKE A MUSCLE, AND THE KNIFE RIPPLED RIGHT THROUGH EACH LAYER UNTIL IT TORE OUT THE BACK OF HIS SKULL… He was dead then and there… I, I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT, BUT I WAS NOT DONE THERE. NO, NOT BY A LONG SHOT. WERE YOU DONE WHEN YOU PILLAGED MY FEELINGS AND ROBBED ME OF EVERYTHING I'VE EVER BELIEVED IN!?? NO, I DIDN'T THINK SO, AND LIKE YOU TAUGHT ME, I ENJOYED EVERY LAST SECOND OF CARVING UP HIS BLOOD SOAKED CORPSE. THE CURTAINS, THE BED, THE FLOOR, EVERY INCH OF THE ROOM WAS REDECORATED IN DISMEMBERED LIMBS AND RAVAGED FLESH. CAN YOU SMELL IT ON THE PAPER, FREAK? CAN YOU!!! IT'S THERE, ALL AROUND YOUR TREACHEROUS FINGERTIPS, THE STENCH OF HIS PUNCTURED STOMACH AND LIVER AND SWEAT SOAKED STRANDS OF HAIR! I LOVE IT FREAK, I WISH YOU WERE HERE, I WISH YOU COULD SEE YOUR HUSBAND NOW. I ALMOST WISH I HAD WAITED FOR YOU AND HE TO GET MARRIED AND HAVE YOUR IDIOT LITTLE CHILDREN SO I COULD HAVE MUTILATED THEM TOO…I loved you freak, more than you'll ever deserve to know…I loved you…I needed to love you. I am closer than you think… "

In place of a closing, the letter ended with a kiss. Red lips sealed the final corner of the letter, but it was not lipstick Evelyn had wet her lips with.

Just as Isley horrifically concluded the sinister letter her heart nearly ruptured as she heard the slow rattle of her cell door opening. In an alarmed panic, Isley jumpily swerved her head to see who was entering, and to her relief, it was merely the usual female guard with her breakfast in hand.

Although her anxiety quelled, Isley's fears and confusion did not. Desperately trying to make sense of it all, Isley just could not fathom what she had read with her own eyes. At points in the letter, she felt like crying out and screaming for help, but each time, she painfully had to remind herself that everything she was reading had long since occurred. She felt so helpless, so inescapably helpless to say or do anything, save slavishly continue reading the sadistic letter.

Isley, lost within herself and her thoughts, crumpled in raw fear as she heard the female guard speak to her, "…I loved you more than you'll ever deserve to know. I loved you… I needed to love you."

In a flashing instant, Isley torturously realized that all this time, the female guard she had always felt sorry for was truly Evelyn. This was the first time she had ever heard Evelyn's voice, but not the first time she had heard her speak. No, all this time Evelyn had been calling out to her in her silence and submission.

Before Isley had a chance to say or do anything, Evelyn immediately drew her gun from out her uniform's holster and aimed directly at Isley. Against the fluorescent light, the barrel of the weapon dimly shimmered in front of Pamela's eyes, glaring her vision, making Evelyn all the more unknowable and thus intimidating. Both women were sweating and shaking, sisters in their common terror.

Evelyn held the gun as if it were both child and mother. She clung dearly to it as if it were to die if she let it go, yet she also found strength and conviction in the palpable effect it elicited in her victim. Staring back at the loaded gun, Pamela stood paralyzed. It was all happening so fast, Ray was gone, murdered, and now she was at gunpoint, perhaps inhaling and exhaling her last breaths on Earth.

Unrelentingly fixing the gun right between the eyes of her hero, Evelyn stood in front of the door, the two locked and bound to the cell, with only one to ever leave again. In the distance, both women could hear the storm raging outside, and likewise, inside Arkham, a storm had also been brewing and was now unleashing its torrential savagery.

In the most disillusioned voice Isley had ever been unfortunate enough to have to hear, Evelyn nervously squeaked, "…I believed in you. You gave me hope. You gave me hope in myself and in this world… But you had to take that away from me. You had to ruin it, you had to ruin EVERYTHING!" Her voice corrosively decomposed into a guttural shout as her lifetime of repressed feelings and insecurities unveiled for the two to see.

Helpless, always helpless, Isley cursed everything she had ever known and felt as she stood there, catatonic, her fate within the quivering hands of Evelyn. Unable to move, unable to act, Pamela Isley could not even speak. The nervous tension in the room had boiled the temperature. It was so hot, so unbearably hot in the cold, uncomfortable cell.

Firmly holding Isley at bay with her firearm, Evelyn, in a primal scream, birthed her innermost disappointment with life, and said, "…YOU GAVE ME HOPE!!!" Dejectedly, her rage gave way to crippling sorrow as she heard aloud the misery she harbored her entire life, and dishearteningly repeated, "…you gave me hope."

Slowly, Evelyn's shaking hand raised, and to Pamela's dreadful disbelief, Evelyn turned the gun on herself, jamming it against her own temple. Realizing Evelyn's intent, Isley instinctively cried out, but it was too late. Her eyes watched in sheer fright as Evelyn's tiny finger pressed against the trigger in slow motion. Evelyn's eyes stole one final glance at Pamela Lillian Isley and then shut forever, a single tear pushed out from under her eyelid. And so, in a macabre crescendo of blood and tears, it ended. Pulling the trigger, the deafening blare of the gun echoed against the sealed cell. The unforgiving steel of the bullet charged through Evelyn's frail skull and tore through every lobe in her brain, exploding out the other side of her temple and crashing against the west wall. As it hit the wall, a chilling metallic ping sound reverberated in Isley's ears, forever haunting what few dreams she would ever have afterward.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

They removed the body. By the afternoon, Evelyn was nothing more than a memory, a drifting thought in the minds of her coworkers and employers. Her suicide came as a surprise, but not a shock to many. The guards, who had never heard her speak, always suspected Evelyn was different, perhaps dangerous. Their preconceptions of her were proven correct as they saw the foul image of her lifeless corpse still gripping the gun, even in death. Arkham and the rest assumed her to be sad, but never suicidal. Eventually they figured that they had never really understood her, but not after long, they resumed their normal lives and work, unaffected by the blood spilt of their fellow man.

Later in the afternoon, Poison Ivy, the zombie she had become, walked into her garden in a trance. The rain had finally subsided and the storm had passed, but its effects, all its cruel effects, lingered on inside of her. Then, in a final devastating heartbreak, Poison Ivy gazed in disbelief at her rose. The violent tremor of the storm had massacred her delicate flower, its once elegant stem torn in two. Crimson rose petals scattered all across the dirt like ashes over a grave.

The beauty of the sun had made it grow. The overwhelming ugliness of the storm had destroyed it. Clutching her precious, wounded lover in her numb palms Poison Ivy carried the fractured remnants of her rose back into her cell. Locked inside, the broken stem would never grow beyond where it was right there and then. At the very least, it would never be hurt again.


End file.
